


Pale September

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s05e04 Detour, F/M, Fluff, Sappy, Songfic, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:26:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5821273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully has romantic thoughts about Mulder as he snuggles up against her during the episode Detour. They are heavily borrowed from song lyrics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pale September

The music starts, at first only in my head, slow and sweet.

–Well, actually it’s October, but same difference.

On this shockingly cold Florida night, I’m singing one song in my head and another to the partner in my arms. I might as well be in two different worlds– he may not want to wrestle, but he’s left me wrestling with my soul.

“Jeremiah was a bullfrog–” falls from my lips. Silly. Toneless. I never could sing, and this is worse than that Cameron Diaz singing in “My Best Friend’s Wedding.” Oh, well, he seems to like it.

In my head, another song keeps playing–

and I had. Something that covered me, something that could be taken off, lost so easily and gone forever…

“Was a good friend of mine–” I’m singing to him. Why on earth am I singing him this song? It’s a ridiculous song. If I could only sing to him what’s playing in my mind…

I’m not a big Fiona Apple fan all the time, but this song is my favorite. I think about life, and how it’s too short. I think how close I came to having the embers of my life burn out, and how empty my life was when I realized that I could die alone, that I would die alone, listening to my heartbeats rattle and end…

“Never understood a single word he said…” I sing out to my partner and my friend. I’m keeping him safe, and warm. Because he would if the situation were reversed. Because I care. Because I want to.

Fiona sings in counterpoint. It’s dreadfully confusing, keeping it all straight. I’m singing one song to the man in my lap, my arms– would you call it the burrows of my keep–? But the song I should be singing is only playing in my head.

“But I helped him drink his wine,” my voice tells the dark Florida night, and my partner. He’s starting to fall asleep, I can tell.

Fiona replies,

Only two people like Mulder and me could have this– this night, this life– happen to us. We’re cursed– Romeo and Juliet thought they had problems– if they’re star-crossed lovers, then we’re star-fucking-twisted-into-a- Gordian-knot lovers. In the same screwed-up medieval courtly sense, too.

“Joy to the world– all the boys and girls–”

I don’t want to be alone anymore. I know how unwise it is to care about him, he’s a selfish man, he’s not good for me, but it’s worse to be alone and know that I love him but I won’t risk my heart and tell him.

“Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea– joy to you and me,” I sing softly. He’s asleep in my lap.

how ironic, I remember, the song is about the time her boyfriend fell asleep in her lap. Now, my Mulder is asleep in my lap, and I like it. Even if I do really need to go to the bathroom.

I don’t need to keep singing the other song anymore, so I don’t, I torment poor Fiona Apple’s lovely song with my voice–

“Yet unaware of the depth upon which he coasts– and he finds a home in me– for what misfortune sows, he knows my touch will reap–” I sing in poor imitation of the dark tones of the depressed teenager. I think back to the Roche case, how I held him then, in silent promise.

I’ll always be there for you. You can always trust me. Love you.

“And all my armour falling down, in a pile at my feet– and my winter giving way to warm, as I’m singing him to sleep,” I whisper.

He stirs a little. Oh, God, did he hear me? A little whimper escapes his throat, but it’s an asleep whimper. I let out a sigh of relief, and ruffle his hair a little. Mine, I think, you insane son of a bitch, you’re mine. Mine in danger, mine in madness, mine in passion and a need to know…

The air is silent around me, and I keep quiet, too, but I can’t help but hear the last refrain of the song in my head…

“All my armour falling down, in a pile at my feet– and my winter giving way to warm, as I’m singing him to sleep.”

For tonight, anyway.


End file.
